Widow Maker
by Flarn
Summary: Post 1986 movie. RodimusElita. Rodimus deals with his guilt over the death of Optimus Prime, his feelings of inadequacy as Autobot leader, and his obsession with Optimus' mate, Elita One. Is it simply absolution he wants from her, or something more?
1. Chapter 1

Author's note:

Just a little something I whipped up to combat a bit of writer's block with my other TF fic, Brainwaves. I always thought the idea of Rodimus Prime and Elita One could make a great guilty pleasure fic, especially in the post-1986 movie verse in which Optimus has died, and also because poor Rodimus has such delicious angst potential even by himself.

I haven't seen much of the G1 cartoon, and most of my knowledge has come from online resources, so if I have screwed something up and it greatly offends you, please try to bear in mind that I am only loosely basing this on a continuity.

Ideally I would like to continue this story, but I don't want to make any promises. I actually got the idea to do my own take on the Rodimus/Elita pairing after reading Serious Intent by Phoenix13, so, when in doubt, if there is something you want to read, try a hand at it yourself. Fic breeds fic, and more fic means more fun:)

* * *

Widow Maker 

I haven't seen her since before he died.

She never came to see his body as it lay in state, or even to witness the launch of the mausoleum ship, although I am told she boarded it for a private visitation as it passed within reach of Cybertron.

I received no response but a politely worded statement of gratitude when I notified her that her position as Commander of the Femme Division was upheld. She never visited Earth, but her reports were timely and immaculate, and she performed her duties with the same dedication as always.

When he had been alive, outsiders would look at her and make snide remarks about nepotism, but anyone who knew her, and the way she'd held our forces on Cybertron together in the millions of Earth years since the Ark disappeared, could see that she was so much more than a presence behind the throne, forced into a prominence she did nothing to earn. She was, and always will be, a magnificent leader in her own right.

I don't have any illusions about how I compare to her. All I know is that the Matrix chose me, and I have a duty to answer its call whether I believe I am worthy or not. She does not deserve to have her name sullied by my lip components, or even by my thoughts, in their audacity of believing the two of us have a common frame of reference. Yet there is one, nonetheless. Like me, she is forever branded, forever marked, by his death. Even if, by some Primus-given miracle - for it would take nothing else - we ourselves were able to forget and try to move on with our lives, nobody could look at either of us without remembering what had been lost.

We are living monuments to his memory first, and individuals second: Elita One, widow of Optimus Prime, and Rodimus Prime, his successor; his de-facto killer.

I haven't seen her since before he died.

She used to visit Earth for at least one week out of every month.

I was usually busy chasing Arcee, but no one could ever be busy enough that a femme like Elita One would escape their notice. Everywhere she went, she commanded attention. She was so tall, so radiant, her elegant red, pink and white frame projecting so much raw power and confidence that even her strange head components - which would have appeared ridiculous on anyone else - seemed as regal as any crown.

Arcee would pout playfully whenever she noticed my distraction, but it never seemed to seriously jeopardize our flirtations, especially since I channelled any latent enthusiasm for my leader's mate straight back in the younger femme's direction. She knew as well as I did that Elita was so far out of my league that I would have had better success courting a Decepticon, and it would have been the same dismal luck for any mech, since Elita only had optics for Optimus.

Not that anyone would have dreamed of getting between them.

Their story was the closest thing we Autobots had to a fairytale. They were built for each other, some said, out of the broken frames of two long ago lovers who had been on the wrong end of Megatron's fearsome fusion cannon, built to lead as one, love as one. It was a love that had survived a separation of such magnitude that entire civilizations, entire worlds had risen and fallen in the interim.

I still remember how happy they looked together, how relaxed Optimus was whenever she visited, and for days after she left, the burdens of leadership falling away to reveal hints of the mech he must have been before the wars. Walking by Optimus' quarters late in the recharge cycle, when most of the other bots were offline, I would sometimes hear the muffled sounds of their passion seeping through the door, and I would retire to my own recharge berth, trembling with need, not just for the mechanics of satisfaction with the closest convenient partner, as some would have said of me, but to actually be touched by another, to touch them in return.

Arcee never seemed to be around when I really needed her, but it never occurred to me... I thought there would be time, plenty of time, and enjoyed the building of tension between us, figuring that when we finally took the next step it would be all the sweeter. I was proud of myself for not rushing into interfacing, even though I really wanted to experience it. I might have been hot-headed Hot Rod, but I thought I was so smart, I thought I knew so much.

I thought I could take on the world, but when I tried, I lost. We all lost. Oh Primus, we lost so much...

And I am left here, alone, to do my penance.

Arcee, who in the back of my processor had already been cast as the one I wanted by my side, Elita to my Optimus - never dreaming that it would be so close to the truth - was even more intimidated by the burden of my leadership than I was, and sought solace in the arms of Springer. Not that I blame her. She's still so young, and I have become ancient before my time.

I wish them well, but I envy them sometimes, for their quiet comfort in each other. I have no one. I should have made my move before, maybe if there had been more between us she would have stayed, would have at least tried... There is no more sweet anticipation for me now, only the desolation of empty years of solitary service spread before me with no way out. No one dares to approach the Prime.

I wonder if it will be the same for Elita. Will she long for company when her grief is past, only to find that no one dares to profane what Optimus Prime once touched? No, not Elita One. I somehow know that if she wants something, she will find a way to make it hers. She would not seek to find a replacement for Optimus, of course, because a loved one is irreplaceable, but there was potential for solace, if she could bring herself to consort with lesser mechs.

I let Arcee go to Springer without a fight. I won't claim I didn't mourn what might have been, but I also felt a sad sort of relief when I realized that it was over between us.

And now I seethe at the mere idea of some future unknown mech touching a femme I never had any claim to, for, despite my leadership, I am the least of all the lesser mechs there are. I could never hope to deserve her, I could never deserve the hope that she might overlook that.

I haven't seen her since before he died.

I was beginning to be glad, thinking that maybe time and distance and the memory of him would hold us apart indefinitely like the repulsion fields from two magnets of identical polarities.

I haven't seen her since before he died.

And now she's coming to Earth.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's note:

Well, here's another part. I hope the perspective change from past to present is not too jarring, but I wanted to show the change in the situation from dwelling in the past to being pulled inexorably into the present. By the same token, I wanted to show just how distracted Rodimus is, so I haven't allowed anyone else to actually be heard talking but him and Elita.

The character of Spindrift here is based on a fan character a friend of mine created. Her situation seemed like the sort that Elita would be interested in, so I used her to give some dimension to the otherwise faceless meetings.

* * *

Widow Maker (part 2) 

Her shuttle lands at Autobot City on a cool, misty morning and she disembarks, accompanied by several from her femme group. The two I remember meeting before, Firestar and Moonracer, have mechs here in the city who will be very happy to see them. Inferno and Powerglide both eagerly put in for leave upon hearing that their ladies would be in town. Another face I would have recognized is suspiciously absent, and I know the reason for it. Chromia, an old friend of Optimus', had been bonded to Ironhide, another casualty of that dreadful day never far from my memory. She was Elita's trusted second in command, of course, so it made sense for her to stay behind and keep things going in her leader's absence, but I imagine that she would not have wanted to return to Earth in any case, to the place where her beloved died. It leaves me wondering why Elita herself has chosen to put in an appearance now, though I am not sure I am brave enough to ask the question, or to hear the answer.

Optimus' widow gives me a crisp salute, and dismisses her companions to go amuse themselves, much to the delight of the Metroplex troops. As I escort her to the first in a long series of meetings to be held today, I see that Powerglide and Inferno are quickly whisking their females away for some long awaited recreation of the most private kind, while the other femmes are being eagerly shepherded towards the lounge. Although there are female Autobots, including Arcee, who are stationed permanently on Earth, new faces of the fairer, or, more accurately, rarer sex, are always welcome.

We round a corner towards the main briefing room in time to get a brief optic full of one of the lucky couples, kissing frantically as they in turn round the corner towards the hallway of personnel quarters. My fuel pump thuds in bittersweet longing as I think of the joys they will experience and doubtless take for granted, and I am surprised to see Elita gazing up at me with an inscrutable look in her optics.

I wonder if she is thinking about what she once had, and I find myself envying her, even the pain of loss, because it meant that she had experienced the precious beauty of it all once.

The meetings go faster than I expected. All the department heads are on their best behaviour and we easily breeze through issues that might have taken several volleys of e-mail messages to resolve under normal circumstances. Before long we reach the last matter of contention.

It has to do with one of our newest recruits, a shy but well spoken blue femme named Spindrift, who transferred here to Autobot city from the planet Junk. She was not a Junkion herself, but had been discovered deactivated in the hull of an old space ship. The reason for requesting her sent to Earth had seemed pretty obvious to me, because her alternate mode was that of a yacht, a pretty useless thing on Cybertron since there was minimal navigable bodies of any sort of liquid. Seaspray had been eager to take her into the ranks of his own newly formed and growing Aquabot division, for Autobots who had ocean going altmodes, which was rapidly distinguishing itself combating Decepticon threats on the high seas. Elita, meanwhile, wanted Spindrift indoctrinated into the ranks of the Femme division, citing the special bond of sisterhood that held the Femmes together, and the need for them to retain a separate identity rather than been split apart and scattered across the whole Autobot army.

I could appreciate the viewpoint of both division leaders, but what it came down to was where Spindrift's special abilities would be best put to use, and, after some discussion, it seemed best to allow Spindrift to remain with the Aquabots, where she was already beginning to form close friendships that would lead to effective teamwork in the future. Seaspray saw no problems with Elita leaving a standing invitation for Spindrift to transfer to the Femmes if she felt inclined, and Elita decided to speak to the new recruit before she left, letting her know that even if she was an Aquabot on paper she would always be considered an unofficial part of the Femme ranks.

The meeting breaks up affably, and everyone slowly filters away, most wandering off to the lounge, where Blaster is playing music and showing off his DJ skills for our visitors.

I stay behind, sorting through the stack of transparencies on which I had been making notes. Copies of the minutes of the meeting would be automatically e-mailed by Metroplex to all those who had been present, thanks to his internal recording feature, but I always found I had more things to add, and for some reason my processor liked to work best with a pen in my hand. I know that eventually I will have to get up, deposit the paperwork at my office, and make my token appearance at the party. Then I would go back to my quarters, have a cube of energon as I looked over departmental dailies for anything of interest that had happened while I was occupied with the meetings, and then slip into recharge, where hopefully the vision of Optimus' dull, still form would not play itself over and over through my exhausted memory banks.

Someone clears their vocalizer meaningfully, and I look up to see that I am not the only one who has stayed behind. I feel like I have been stomped by a gestalt as I raise my optics to see that it is Elita One.

"Well?" she prompts me gently, though for what I can't guess. "You escorted me to all these tedious, but oh so necessary meetings. Are you going to abandon me now that there is a party to go to?"

"Abandon? What? I never - " Babbling like an idiot, I am relieved when she cuts me off.

"Really, you know as well as I do that leadership requires your full attention, you cannot pick and choose which functions you wish to fulfill and which you don't." She gets up from her seat, crossing the room and I see that her optics are twinkling. I find my elbow firmly grabbed. "Not all the duties of leadership have to be onerous, Rodimus."

We make a stop at my office to drop off my paperwork, and then at her temporary quarters where she leaves her own notes before making our way to the party in the lounge. The festivities have been going on for most of the day, so that Autobots on all shift rotations would get the chance to participate and enjoy themselves.

I feel like all optics have locked onto us as we walk in the door, but that is my imagination, mostly. The raucous cheer that comes from the femmes in the room upon spying Elita, however, is very, very real. The Cybertron crew that arrived with the Femme commander of course had no duties here in Autobot city, so they had been partying for the entire time that we had been occupied with our meetings, and they were boisterously over-energized and extremely happy about it.

The music is a strange mix of throbbing techno and what sounds like the ancient Earth language Latin, passion and penitence melding in a way that feels entirely too familiar.

I can feel my faceplate overheating, and I am glad that at least it cannot change colour with embarrassment as human faces do. Trying to cover for myself, I lead Elita around the room, smiling at everyone and trying to look like I am having a good time, while her hand seems to burn my sensory circuits where it rests against my arm. I look around, hoping to find Spindrift, since Elita had wanted to speak to her, but the boat femme is nowhere in sight.

We pass by the bar, and I grab us each a cube of high grade energon. I sip at mine and I see that she does the same, but the heat that settles into the pit of my fuel tanks has nothing to do with what I am drinking.

We don't speak directly to each other, as we pause in our circuit of the room to talk with any Autobots that engage one or another of us in conversation. I allow her to do most of the talking, occupying myself with the energon in my hand. I haven't consumed anything this strong since before he died. Hot Rod had enjoyed getting over-energized on occasion, but since the change, I had been afraid to touch anything but the most basic of energon, afraid that once I started I wouldn't be able to stop.

The temptation has not gone away, the seductive prospect of crawling into a cube and never coming out again, forgetting everything.

By the time we reach the door again my drink is empty, and so is Elita's.

"I've had enough." She places her cube in a receptacle and I follow suit. Her voice is distant. "Take me back to my quarters."

We leave the party the same way we came in: together, and I know that tongues will wag. I wish I could spare her, she doesn't deserve any of this, but she won't let go of my arm.

The corridors are empty as we walk slowly back towards her assigned guest room. I know this is protocol, courtesy, nothing more, but my fuel pump is racing again, and my vocalizer feels painfully tight.

For a moment I almost forget the unwanted tie that binds us, lost in the tendrils of my one-sided desire.

We stop in front of the door, and it opens, keyed to her unique energy signature. Nothing more needs to be done, but her hand still does not leave my arm.

She stands up on tiptoe, and presses a kiss to my lip components. I force myself not to move, but a shudder runs through my frame, betraying my longing and Optimus' memory in a blazing rush of forbidden fire. She knows now, how much I want her. My fate is sealed, but even so I resist for a moment as she tries to pull me inside, torn between the punishment I know I deserve, and the fact that I am powerless to deny her anything. But why, oh Primus, why did she have to want this? Why couldn't she have settled for something easier... like placing a blaster in my hand and telling me to blow a hole in my own CPU?

That, at least, would be something I actually deserve.

Elita gets me far enough past the threshold for the door to close, and she palms the lock, sealing it, before shoving me back, my chassis clanking against the cold metal, hers clattering against mine, sending delicious vibrations through my body. Her kiss is hard, her caresses forceful, waking long dormant circuits, trying to break my will. She has no idea just how broken I already am...


	3. Chapter 3

Author's notes:

And the story climbs into the M section where I had intended it to be all along. Mwahaha! While the sex is not going to be human-style, I took some liberties and included some other human-ish behaviours that the cartoon and comic universes seem to have included. (see Transformers Wikia article on humanizing - it won't let me post URLs here). Since these have been used in the actual canon continuity I see no reason why I shouldn't use them as well.

As for Rodimus and Elita, there is a reason why this is happening. Trust me.

WARNING: Dubious consensuality ahead.

I will warn you that, if you hadn't begun to detect it before, consensuality is getting to be dubious. My apologies if it makes you uncomfortable, but I wanted to play with the power dynamics of the relationship. By the standards of our society, it would seem like, being big and masculine, and the Autobot leader to boot, Rodimus should be the one in charge, but his emotional burdens make him exceedingly vulnerable. Of course, the inability, or unwillingness, to communicate evinced by both himself and Elita doesn't help matters.

* * *

Widow Maker (part 3) 

Broken or not, I am helpless to do anything other than respond. I return her kiss, but I am quickly overwhelmed, this is nothing like the playful dalliances Hot Rod and Arcee used to enjoy. I had at least felt that Arcee and I were equals, exploring our attraction to each other based on mutual trust and affection. Elita One is different, she was far enough above me in those days, but now, after my fall from grace, my failure to save my leader and her love, she has ascended the astral heights of unattainability. Yet here she is, deigning to desire me, condescending to conquer me, leaving me as powerless before her passions as a micron of space dust before Unicron, and I feel certain that she is just as likely to devour me, each gesture, each touch consuming a part of my being until nothing remains.

I am trapped in her gravity as she pulls me again, this time towards the recharge bed against the far wall. She is moving so fast, far too fast for my comfort, and I am afraid, afraid of how far she seems ready to take this, afraid to say anything that might break the spell that has wrapped around us both, afraid to prevent her from taking what she wants.

The bed looms closer. Elita spins me around at the last second. I feel the surface against the back of my knees and obligingly sit down, but it is not enough for her and she presses me backwards, forcing me to lie supine, submissive to her as she straddles my hips. White hands trace the flame pattern on my chest, and the Autobot symbol that lies in the middle of it, straight over the chamber that holds the Matrix, and beneath it my spark, both of which seem to leap, almost as if recognizing her contact.

I can't suppress a gasp as Elita's hands move inexorably downwards, to open a smaller panel in my chest, revealing my interfacing equipment, consisting of an extendable cable for plugging into another Cybertronian, and a small port for receiving an incoming connection in return. Human pleasure activities, which involve a variety of physically invasive interactions supported by proportionally large organic organs, would seem to make these tiny devices laughable by comparison, but the connection achieved by these deceptively unimpressive bits of hardware is deeper than anything humanity has ever known.

She traces my power couplings with a single finger, and I groan loudly, writhing wantonly beneath her as my optics flicker offline. I am both terrified and delighted by the reactions of my body as it shows just how badly it craves that connection. Small sparks, and even arcs of current reward the tormenting digit, data and energy trying frantically to transmit through any means available, despite the immediate absence of a link.

Elita opens her own panel, revealing a set of connectors identical to my own, leaving no doubt in my mind that she intends to take this all the way. The plug of her interface cable rests flush against her armour, and she carefully pulls it outward, unwinding the cord that was spooled up inside her for safekeeping. I begin to tremble, and not just from desire.

The invasion of my body will be so minute as to be insignificant, but, with the link established, she will be able to touch the furthest reaches of my mind. All my memories, all my hopes and dreams, all my longings and fears will be there for her to access as if they were her own. I will be completely open to her, and then, I realize, she will see just how pathetic I am.

I know the others already think I am laughable, but how much more would they laugh if they could see me now: Rodimus the usurper, Optimus' craven killer, not content with stealing leadership, instead compounding his sins by daring to crave the touch of the lover the great Autobot left behind. They would say it was cosmic justice that, finally faced with the one I have wanted for so long, I am paralysed by shame, guilt and dread, unable to bring myself say yes to her amorous advances and participate fully in the experience, and unable to say no and endure the pain of her departure.

To my horror, I feel my optics begin to sting, and a trickle of cleaning fluid runs down the side of my faceplate. I suck air in through my intakes, hoping to calm myself, but what emerges is an anguished sob.

"Rodimus?" Elita pauses, her plug clasped between her thumb and forefinger, inches away from my port.

The sight of her blue optics regarding me with concern is my complete undoing, and the humiliation quickly cascades out of control as I avert my face, succumbing at last bitter weeping.

I think I must have stunned her for a moment because she remains perched above my shuddering frame in utter stillness. The most vindictive part of my processor conjures an image of the ludicrous picture we must present: a huge, seemingly powerful mech snivelling piteously beneath a femme a fraction of his size. Then I hear I zipping sound, which I distantly realize is her cable automatically retracting into its storage compartment. That's it, the final blow to my pride. I could barely look in the mirror before this whole fiasco, and now I probably never will again.

Her weight leaves my hips and I react immediately, rolling onto my side, my knees drawn up, facing the wall, not even bothering to close my panel. The need for escape overwhelms me, but I am trapped, there is no possible way I could bring myself to risk being seen like this by even more people. The fact that Elita herself, to whom I am already so vulnerable, is the one witnessing my meltdown has me at the limits of the degradation I think I can bear.

"Rodimus..." Elita's touch is no longer sure and demanding, but hesitant as she begins rubbing my spoiler in slow, comforting circles.

I am not ready for this new development. What I would expect, what I would deserve would be for her to leave. Of course these are her assigned quarters, so where else would she go? I struggle for reasons to negate the kindness I hear in her voice and feel in her touch; those things are not for someone like me.

"I'm sorry," I whimper, between sobs, "Primus, Elita, I am so_ sorry_..." I'm not entirely sure what I am apologizing for, my failure as a pleasure partner, my lack of emotional continence, or the other, deeper reasons behind it...

"I know," the femme commander replies soothingly, "I know..." At this point, some would have told me not to cry, but not Elita, she seems to understand and realize that sooner or later everyone has to deal with tears. Especially people like us. "It's alright," she tells me, "just let it out, let it all out..."


	4. Chapter 4

Author's note:

Thanks for the reviews, it is nice to see Rodimus getting some sympathy, even though lots of people love to hate him. Poor guy...

* * *

Widow Maker (part 4) 

It takes me long moments to get myself under control. During that time she does not speak, but continues to gently rub my back and shoulders.

"Why?" I ask, finally, when my voice is willing to be coherent again. I am terrified by how she might answer the question, but I must know nonetheless. "Why are you being so nice to me? I don't understand how anyone could want me after what I've done, but especially not you. He... he died because of me..."

There is no need to say who I am talking about.

"No," Elita's voice is so patient, so firm, "he died because of Megatron."

I feel a burst of relief at her words, but it is short lived, clouded quickly by the realization that she probably doesn't completely comprehend what happened that day. Why else would she be so understanding? I want to keep silent, to bask in that understanding, not shudder under the lash of the cold anger I know will come when she realizes she is mistaken to believe I am innocent, but as a leader I must take responsibility for my actions. Despite my cowardice, I find the strength to speak, though my words emerge in a breathless, guilty rush, bereft of dignity. "Megatron may have fired the fatal shots, but it is still my fault. Kup told me not to interfere, but I did it anyway. I saw that Optimus had Megatron disarmed and begging for his life, then realized the begging was a trick, and Megatron was slowly inching towards a gun that was hidden in some debris. I was stupid to think I could take on Megatron by myself, even with the element of surprise. I should have just stayed back and warned Optimus, but I wanted to be a hero and save his life. Instead I became the reason he died."

"Rodimus, please look at me." It is at once a command and a plea, and I could have refused neither. I roll over onto my other side, my faceplate still wet with cleaning fluid from my rebellious optics.

Elita gets up for a moment, and returns with an unused polishing cloth, handing it to me so I can clean myself up. I take it gratefully and pull myself upright to wipe around my optics and then mop up the small pool of fluid they left.

"Rodimus," she begins, her optics suspiciously bright with a certain glimmer of their own. "I appreciate you telling me the story in your own words, but it isn't going to change my mind. I don't blame you for Optimus' death. I know it must have seemed that way, with me avoiding coming to Earth, but I needed to take things in my own time. I was so caught up in grieving that for once I didn't think of what it would look like to others, with me not being here, showing support and solidarity with our new leader as we..."

Elita's vocalizer falters, but the unfinished sentence hangs between us: _As we lay the old one to rest._

This is the first visible crack in her armour I have ever seen, and I am deeply moved to witness it. I find myself taking her in my arms, initiating physical contact with her on my own terms for the first time in our encounter. She presses her face against the middle of my chest, bathing my Autobot symbol with her tears. Before I thought it was my imagination, but now I feel it again: a strange quickening of my spark at her touch, and an answering pulsation in the Matrix.

She regains control more quickly than I did, and pulls back from me just slightly, looking up at me through gleaming optics, cleaning fluid forming silvery rivulets on the porcelain white of her faceplate. I pick up the discarded polish rag and brush it gently across her dermal plating, wiping away her tears, the symbols of her grief mingling with my own as they are absorbed into the soft cloth.

I lose myself in the feeling of touching her, for a moment forgetting to halt my ministrations once her tears are dry. I feel something wake inside of me, something long forgotten. Impulsively, I lean down to kiss her.

It is a gentle, chaste kiss, barely more than a brushing of lip components, but she shivers, the frissons of her chassis carrying themselves into my form as well. I kiss her for a second time, just as slowly, and for a second time we quiver and shudder deliciously.

Suddenly I am alive again.

I pull her more tightly against me, deepening the kiss, allowing my fingers to stray over her shoulders, caressing the spike-like projections that emerge from her upper arms. Her body is so enticingly intricate, I want to explore every aspect of her powerful, yet shapely form and catalogue the ways we are the same, and the ways we are different.

Our systems are overheating by the time I reluctantly take my mouth from hers, and for long moments we do not speak as we rapidly cycle air, trying to cool down. She is looking at me differently than before, like she is seeing me for the first time.

"I believe the humans have a suitable expression for this situation: 'Wow'." Her voice is still breathy; it is an incredibly seductive sound, though the words that follow make me squirm. "But you did have me going for a while, for a moment I thought you had never done this before."

"This? Oh, I've done it all the time," I say, feeling some of Hot Rod's old flippant charm emerge from wherever it had been hiding. It bolsters me only slightly for my next statement. "But if you're talking about interfacing, about actually... connecting with someone, then, no, I haven't done that." I look down, realizing for the first time that my panel is still open, and close it sheepishly.

If there is one thing I have learned, it is that little can surprise Elita One, making the look of shock on her faceplate as rare and priceless as the Femme Commander herself. "But I thought you and Arcee... I know she's with Springer now, but you two seemed awfully close when I used to visit."

"We had planned on it," I reply, "when the time was right. We didn't want to rush into anything. Then, I became leader, and well, I guess 'awfully close' just wasn't close enough."

"You were waiting for the right time," she says, still looking stunned.

"Not what the rumour mill would have you believe, is it?" I laugh self-deprecatingly. "The conquests of Hot Rod are legendary, but, like most legends, have a very limited basis in fact." The fact was that I had been woefully arrogant, and few people except Arcee had been able to see past that to the person I really was underneath.

Elita leans forward, clasping her hands together and staring down at them. "Well, this certainly complicates things." She looks up at me. "I think it's time I told you why I'm here."

"I must admit I've been wondering that," I say. It is easier to give in to my curiosity now that I am reasonably sure she really isn't angry with me, yet I still can't quite believe I'm daring to push my luck. "Why now, after all this time?"

She laughs unexpectedly and gives my arm a playful shove; the contact is still electrifying. "If you were so anxious to see me, you could have ordered me to come."

I smile in return, grateful for her attempt at good humour despite the difficult situation. "I wouldn't have done that without a really good reason, and I couldn't think of one that would warrant hastening a confrontation when the first thing I figured you would do is spit in my optic. In fact, I'm sure half of Autobot City is wondering why you haven't gotten around to doing that yet."

Elita chuckles briefly, then sobers. "I will admit that for a while I didn't think I could ever come back here. All my memories of Earth involve him, and to see someone else in the place he used to occupy, doing all the things he used to do... I wasn't sure I could face it. I also think that perhaps, at that point in my grief I would have said something rash, something I didn't actually mean, something like what you've obviously been torturing yourself with anyway, even without my help..."

"What else am I supposed to do?" I ask. It is a question I have asked myself again and again in the darkness of the night when I can't recharge, and I have never found any sort of answer. "You said it yourself, Elita, I'm in his place, doing all the things he used to do, and people don't see me, they see him, they see what's missing now that he's gone, everything I'm doing wrong, every mistake that _he_ would never have made. How am I supposed to live like this?"

"Rodimus," she places a hand on my knee, comfortingly, and my sensors are instantly riveted to the spot, seeking more, "has anyone offered to take your place?"

"No..." I don't see what she is getting at. Being Autobot leader, I have learned, is a thankless job that puts you under a microscope of scrutiny - who in their right mind would want it?

"Then, despite their criticisms, they obviously don't think they would do any better than you," Elita concludes. Her logic seems impeccable, but a part of me refuses to see reason, at least any sort of reason that sheds a positive light on my efforts. Seeing me hesitate, she presses on. "You don't think Optimus had the same problems when he first assumed leadership? An unknown dockworker rebuilt practically from scrap and given the Matrix while others who served the cause for countless vorns were passed over? They thought Alpha Trion was senile or worse."

I try to imagine Optimus facing the same sorts of criticisms and comparisons as I have been, and the thought is as bizarre, as ridiculous to me as Sunstreaker having himself rebuilt into a garbage truck. "I find that hard to believe..."

Elita shakes her head, a far away look in her optics. It is often easy to forget her age, I don't know how she does it, but she carries the burden of her vorns of leadership lightly, whereas I feel ancient after leading for only a tiny fraction of that time. Just now though, her voice seems to hold the weight of every single astrosecond she has lived. "Most have forgotten those times, but I have not. There is much I can share with you, things that now only you will understand, both because you are leader and because you feel so connected to his death. You consider yourself responsible for what happened, Rodimus, but I don't think it is your fault." She pauses briefly before shocking me with her next words. "If there is anyone I blame, it is myself."


End file.
